


Without You, I Cannot Be

by round_robin



Series: An Exaltation of Wolves [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Canon-typical bathing, Character Study, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Kaer Morhen, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs (The Witcher), M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Scent Kink, Scenting, Self-Doubt, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Touch-Starved, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:48:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23681110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: “You are a child.” Those yellow eyes snapped up to his face and Jaskier's mouth went dry. “You don't know how old I am, but to me, you will always be a child. A child who almost got killed today, and it would've been my fault. Strangely enough, I don't want you dead.” He shook his head and stood up, stalking over to his bedroll and turning away from Jaskier. “Don't fucking do it again.”And that was the moment Jaskier started falling in love with Geralt of Rivia.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: An Exaltation of Wolves [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1687699
Comments: 130
Kudos: 1371
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	1. Without You

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly prequel, it takes place before and slightly during "Soap, and the Scents of Home"
> 
> I was planning on showing how Geralt and Jaskier got together (in this version of things, anyways) and with the way I'm putting this series together, a little bit of a flash back interlude will expand the world. This has callbacks in the other parts of the series, you can try to read it as a stand alone, but it does go with the three previous fics.
> 
> The title is a translated lyric from a Rammstein song, Ohne Dich (Without You). They're my favorite band, they're lyrics are so poetic and beautiful, even when they're barbed and angry, which feels like a decent description for a Witcher...
> 
> All typos are my fault, please let me know if you find one and I'll fix it. Enjoy!
> 
> I am round--robin on tumblr if you're looking for similar nonsense.

It had been a long few weeks, but Jaskier had finally worn the Witcher down. At least, he thought so. Their first night traveling together (Geralt called it stalking, but he let that go) Geralt barely spared him any food, tossing one rabbit haunch across the fire. It was still burning hot and Jaskier almost dropped it in the dirt when it touched his fingers. Geralt threw his head back and laughed, the first bit of mirth he managed to get out of the man, uh, the Witcher.

By the end of the first week, Geralt stopped snarling at Jaskier when he put his bedroll too close, and after almost month traveling together, he asked Jaskier to watch Roach while he answered the call of nature. They were on their way to being fast friends, Jaskier just knew it.

It was after their first close call that Geralt truly began opening up, in his own way, at least. They were hunting a wyvern and Geralt barked at Jaskier to stay with Roach. Jaskier did not stay with Roach, he followed Geralt, which he soon realized was unwise. The great green beast swooped out of the sky, trying to knock Geralt down with one of its large wings. Then it spotted Jaskier.

Turning on the air currents, it made another pass, flying straight for him, jaws open, putrid spittle dripping out. Jaskier ran, harder and faster, and ducked behind a boulder. “Fuck!” Geralt cursed. He heard a grunt of effort, then a scream from the wyvern as it died. And then... nothing.

“Get the fuck out here!” Geralt snarled.

Trying not to trip over his own feet, Jaskier emerged from behind the boulder to find one dead wyvern, and one very pissed off Witcher. “Nice kill...” He tried for levity, but that stony glare stole his words away.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” With blood still dripping from his sword, Geralt climbed over the wyvern corpse and decapitated it, never once looking at his work, his anger completely focused on Jaskier. “You follow me, fine, I've gotten used to you, but you better fucking listen. I tell you to stay back, you stay back. One drop of its venom and I'd have to dig your fucking grave.”

Jaskier pressed his lips tight together, determined not to cry. The fear, the adrenaline, the very attractive man spitting curses at him, Jaskier's mind couldn't process it all at once, and he hadn't cried in front of Geralt yet, he wasn't planning to do so anytime soon. He had to prove he was strong enough for this life. “I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I promise, I'll listen next time.”

Geralt's eyes feel away from him and he shook his head in disgust. “If there is a next time.” Wyvern head in one hand, bloody sword in the other, Geralt pushed past Jaskier and returned to Roach. Jaskier tried his best to keep up, but his feet faltered once again.

Was this the end? Had his company finally become too much of a burden? He wasn't stupid enough to think the Witcher actually liked him—not after only a few week's acquaintance and Geralt's anti-people mentality—but he thought, if he stayed out of the way, if he helped, then maybe... maybe one day, Geralt would call him friend. And now he blew it by getting in the way, the one thing he fucking knew not to do.

Attaching the wyvern head to Roach's saddle, Geralt turned and stepped in front of Jaskier. “Look at me,” he said, voice filled with all the warmth of a Skelliege winter. That strong voice—Jaskier was helpless to resist—he lifted his head, tears shining in his eyes. Geralt sighed and a surprisingly gentle hand tipped Jaskier's chin up, turning his head from side to side, examining. “Only a few scrapes. You'll be fine. Fucking lucky.”

He dropped his hand and stepped away, climbing onto Roach. “Come on!” he shouted when Jaskier didn't follow him. “I want to collect my coin, then get out of this shit hole.”

“Yes! Of course!” Jaskier ran after him, his heart hammering.

They collected Geralt's coin, bought supplies, then got the fuck out of town. Geralt didn't seem to like towns, Jaskier had noticed, he only stopped when he needed a bath—and he was _very_ fond of baths, Jaskier had noticed that too.

After they put a good bit of road between them and the last contract, Geralt stopped them to make camp. Jaskier hadn't said a word since his near miss with the wyvern, and Geralt hadn't abandoned him on the side of the road. It looked like he was finally doing something right.

They set up camp in silence, ate in silence, then stared at the fire in silence. Jaskier fought the urge to take out his lute and test a few notes for a new song, he settled for scribbling in his composition book instead. After what seemed like hours, Geralt spoke.

“How old are you?” he whispered, eyes not leaving the flames between them.

A month together and Geralt hadn't asked Jaskier a single thing about himself. At first, his questions revolved around the same theme: “Why are you following me? What do you want? Why won't you go away?” But when he accepted Jaskier was stuck to him for the time being, he stopped asking questions completely. Until tonight.

Jaskier closed his composition book and gave all his attention to the Witcher. “I'll be nineteen at the beginning of summer.”

In perhaps the first show of genuine emotion that wasn't anger, Geralt squeezed his eyes shut, a sad sigh pushing between his lips. “Fuck, nineteen? You're a—”

“Don't call me a child,” Jaskier snapped. “I can take care of myself.”

“You are a child.” Those yellow eyes snapped up to his face and Jaskier's mouth went dry. “You don't know how old I am, but to me, you will always be a child. A child who almost got killed today, and it would've been my fault. Strangely enough, I don't want you dead.” He shook his head and stood up, stalking over to his bedroll and turning away from Jaskier. “Don't fucking do it again.”

And that was the moment Jaskier started falling in love with Geralt of Rivia.

~

“Ah, fuck,” Geralt cursed.

Jaskier rolled his eyes. This was about the thirtieth 'fuck' since they started walking up the stairs, and maybe the hundredth since they returned to town. Jaskier's doting and soft attention only went so far, now Geralt was just being dramatic. Not to mention he kept pushing the bard away, snarling when he tried to examine the wound.

He pushed Geralt onto the bed and held open the door for the bath to come in. Geralt held his tongue until they were alone. “I don't need that.”

“The fuck you don't.” After most of a season trailing in Geralt's wake, the shine of adventure hadn't worn off, Jaskier simply knew the rules now—when he could answer back and push against the Witcher's surly moods, and when he couldn't. Injuries beat all. Geralt could spit and growl as much as he liked, but he was going in that fucking bath. “That harpy got a good piece of you and your range of motion is probably shot, I don't think you can reach your shoulder in your condition, much less clean the wound. Let me bandage you up and then you can ignore me for the rest of the night.”

“I've had worse,” Geralt said. Yes, the harpy got a claw in him, but it was a lucky shot. Single harpies were basically angry pigeons—mostly bluster and easy to dispatch—Geralt didn't want to think how bad a full flock might have been, not with Jaskier still suicidally following him. They might've carried him off as a meal, but with how skinny he was, maybe not.

“Yes, well, now you have me.” Jaskier glared at him. Geralt glared back, locking them in a staring contest, neither willing to break first. Geralt had the advantage, obviously, and expected the bard to fold any minute.

Jaskier stared him down, jaw clenched, hands on his hips. With Geralt half crumpled on the bed, it was easy for Jaskier to loom, even from across the room. Geralt smelled the hot water, the bath gently steaming... and he broke.

“Fine.” He heaved himself up off the bed, and thankful Jaskier didn't try to help. He didn't want any further indignity.

Jaskier didn't smirk in triumph when Geralt gave in, he simply assisted with the Witcher's armor, not saying a word. If Geralt knew this was the secret to shutting Jaskier's trap for a few minutes, he would've gotten himself injured weeks ago.

His skin mostly bare, Jaskier bent down to take off his boots, before turning away, averting his eyes. “Do you need help with the buttons?”

Standing there only in his breeches, Geralt put the pieces together and groaned. “I have no modesty to protect, bard. Don't shield your eyes on my account.” He'd see it all in a moment if he was so intent on _helping_. He did managed the buttons just fine and shoved the breeches down, kicking them away.

“Everyone deserves a little dignity,” Jaskier said, voice soft.

“My dignity died with my humanity.” Stepping over the rim of the tub, Geralt held back a moan of pleasure as the nearly scalding water enveloped him. He took a moment to throw his head back and enjoy the heat, giving in to one of the few pleasures in his life. “Alright,” he said. “You can look now.”

“Thank you.” Jaskier fetched the rough stool from the corner and sat down behind Geralt, soft fingers probing the gash on his shoulder. “This is deep. Might need stitches. Hold on a moment.”

Jaskier rummaged in their bags, searching out bandages and maybe a needle and thread, muttering to himself the whole time. Geralt didn't hear a word of it. The moment those delicate fingers touched his torn skin, it was all Geralt could do not to pant, groan, and make so many other undignified noises. The gentle pads of Jaskier's fingers burned against his skin wherever they touched, leaving tingling fire in their wake. For the first time since the bard set eyes on him, Geralt's control began to crumble.

All those nights traveling together, he held himself back from what his senses told him—sitting across the fire, a warm, living body well within his grasp—all he had to do was reach out and allow Jaskier to fall into his arms. He heard Jaskier's mortal heart and its changing rhythms, smelled the heat of his skin, the perfume of his hair, his _lust_. But he couldn't... allow himself. The temptation to take and hold and have, Geralt couldn't give in, the second he did, the moment he reached out for Jaskier, the young man would leave, recoil in fear and run. Geralt had seen it before, other humans who took a shine to him only to run away when he tried to return any small affection. It's why he paid for it, why _all_ Witcher's paid for it, because no one really wanted them, the monstrous monster hunters.

But Jaskier seemed different, with his beautiful eyes and easy smiles, he watched Geralt as if he were the moon—bright, ethereal, and unattainable. No one had ever looked at him like that. What if... when the moon came down, Jaskier realized he didn't want it?

Gripping the edge of the tub, Geralt tried to hold himself together. Jaskier's fingers brushed his back again and he bit down on a moan. “I don't think you need stitches. I will have to clean it thoroughly, it might be painful.”

“Fine.” Yes, pain. Pain was good. The distraction might set Geralt's mind right, remind him why he couldn't really want Jaskier, it wasn't a Witcher's place to want anything other than fair pay for fair work.

The smell of spirit spread through the air. “This will sting,” Jaskier said, then pressed a cloth to the wound.

It did sting—the disinfecting alcohol clawed inside the gash in his skin and Geralt managed to relax a little. Pain he could handle, it was a very familiar friend. Then, that soft hand returned and Geralt couldn't stop the shiver that rolled through him.

“Finished,” Jaskier said, his voice soft and low, like soothing an animal or a child. Yes, Geralt was simply an animal to him, he held onto that thought, blocking out the urge to push back... to stand up and take Jaskier in his arms, begging for more of those soft touches. “Shoulders bleed a lot, makes the injury look worse. I supposed I don't have to tell you.”

Jaskier continued talking, making light conversation with himself as he bathed Geralt. He hadn't planned to let it go this far, but the second those too soft hands touched him, sitting still and staring at the wall was all Geralt could manage. He held tight to the rim of the tub, locking himself in place, any movement and it was all over.

A soapy cloth slid across his back, firm and thorough, scrubbing the grime, sweat and blood from Geralt's skin, while Jaskier's other hand rested on his uninjured shoulder. Geralt closed his eyes and let his entire world narrow down to that hand, the slight pressure of it, the warmth, hell, if he concentrated enough, he could make out the ridges on Jaskier's fingers. Each finger tip burned bright against his skin and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to hold back a moan. If this went on much longer, he'd draw blood.

Jaskier's hand slid down from his shoulder and Geralt tried not to shiver again. “Fuck, your back is so tight. Don't suppose you'd let me rub it later? I know you hate the smells of all my oils and perfumes, but I believe I have a chamomile massage oil. If that scent doesn't bother you, and it should be good for your injury.” Geralt said nothing. Blood filled his mouth.

After another moment, the cloth stilled, Jaskier's fingers tensed against his skin. “Geralt, is everything alright? You seem... not well.”

 _Don't. Just fucking don't_ , Geralt wanted to scream. Don't move, don't look at him, and for the love of whatever gods watched over Witchers, don't stop touching.

But Jaskier did stop touching. His hands pulled away and the scrape of the wooden stool against the floor shocked Geralt back to attention. “Do harpies have some sort of poison I'm not aware of? Because, seriously Geralt, you look like—”

Jaskier stepped around to the front of the bath, entering Geralt's sight line, and it was all over. Water and soap splashed everywhere as he stood up, his hand curled around Jaskier's undershirt, pulling the man to him, into the tub. Jaskier stumbled when he hit the rim, but Geralt was there to catch him. He wrapped his arms around Jaskier and smashed their lips together.

It was too rough—Geralt fucking knew he had to let up. But he... couldn't. His iron grip on Jaskier's shirt would not soften, his sharp teeth ravaging supple lips would not cease. Their blood mixed on Geralt's tongue and he moaned, releasing all the pitiful noises he'd held back.

Jaskier flailed for a moment before landing his hands on Geralt's hips, trying to steady himself. Back bent awkwardly, one foot in the water, one on dry land, he imagined he'd be uncomfortable. If he was in pain, Jaskier sure as hell didn't feel it, all he felt at the moment was Geralt of Fucking Rivia pressed against him, one large hand on his chest, the other curled around his neck, moaning and whimpering like Jaskier was the god of kissing. The blood coating his tongue didn't bother him—with Geralt, blood was a fact of life, Jaskier acclimated quickly—and he opened his mouth wider, inviting whatever Geralt wanted to give him.

Licking into his mouth, Geralt seemed determined to explore every corner of Jaskier's tongue, and oh did he want to let him go... but far too soon, a pressure in his chest made him pull back. “Breathing!” he panted before Geralt could read too much into it. Because he was not pulling away, he certainly was not doing that. “Just breathing! See, all done now.”

The few seconds their lips weren't touching seemed long enough for Geralt to come to his senses. He blinked, as if emerging from a daze, and pulled back from Jaskier—but the hand fisted in his shirt stayed still, holding them a mere breath away from each other. “No, we can't.”

“Why not?” Jaskier tried to kiss him again, but back in his right mind, Geralt held him away. “You're a wonderful kisser. Really, we should do more of that.”

Yellow eyes darted down to Jaskier's torn shirt, his soaking wet breeches. “Did I hurt you?”

“Of course not.” Even if he did, Jaskier wouldn't tell him so. He'd seen enough of Geralt's sense of moral obligation to know the Witcher would spend the next fortnight mentally flogging himself if he thought he hurt Jaskier. “I was enjoying myself.” He fluttered his eyelashes, biting his bottom lip—already kiss swollen and red—using every trick in his book to find what made Geralt kiss him again. “Were you?”

Geralt didn't answer the question. “I shouldn't have grabbed you.”

Switching tactics, Jaskier dropped the flirty gazes and met those yellow eyes dead on. “How long?” he asked. Geralt said nothing. “You went to a brothel a few weeks ago—I know, I was in the next room—but how long before that? How long has it been since someone's touched you?” He had his suspicions for a while now (with the reputation most Witchers had, Geralt's brooding demeanor had to be more than just attitude) but the past few moments confirmed it—the groaning, the extreme reaction to the smallest touch—Geralt hadn't felt a kind hand against his skin in a very long time.

He slowly slid one hand from Geralt's hip up to his chest, the movement startling Geralt out of his haze. He grabbed Jaskier's wrist, holding it tight. “That's not... that's not your business.”

“Well, considering you kissed me, I'd say it is my business.” Geralt said nothing and Jaskier let the silence grow between them, trying to wait the other man out.

It appeared he wasn't going to break this time, Jaskier just had to try a different method. The euphoria of the sudden, glorious kiss had worn off and he started to feel the twinge in his back. “Since you're not going to kiss me again, could you let me go? I may be young, but this is really fucking up my back.”

Shock flashed across Geralt's face, and before Jaskier had a chance to enjoy the novelty, those strong hands released him and he almost fell back, barely managing to keep his balance. Geralt sat back down in the tub, splashing water and soap all over the floor, looking anywhere but at Jaskier.

He stood up straight and smoothed his ruined undershirt. “Right. You don't want to talk, fine. Let me finish your hair, at least. You've never let me wash you before. I'm actually very good at it.” He didn't want to brag, but Jaskier had studied under the finest bath mistress in all of Oxenfurt, sometimes literally. Sure, it wasn't an actual course, more... an educational dalliance at the local bath house. The owner—Marina Clove—took a liking to Jaskier and taught him a few tricks of her trade, he knew how to make soaps and bath salts, oils for the hair and skin, washing Geralt's lovely hair wouldn't even tap the deep well of his knowledge.

After a long moment of staring at the wall in stony silence, Geralt lifted his eyes. “Are you a bard or a bath house attendant?”

“Lucky for you, I know how to do both.”

Another staring contest commenced until finally, Geralt jerked his head towards the extra bucket of bath water, his eyes glowering _fucking get on with it_.

Jaskier nodded his thanks and pulled the stool back to the side of the tub. Heaving the bucket up from the floor, he stood behind Geralt. “Look up.”

Those brilliant golden eyes locked on him, stealing Jaskier's breath for a moment. When he started pouring the water over Geralt's hair, he expect him to close his eyes, but there they were, trained on him. Jaskier didn't know if that showed trust that he had control of the water and wouldn't get any in Geralt's eyes, or distrust of the bard in general. It was a thin line with Geralt.

Hair suitably wet, Jaskier picked up the soap and wash rag from where he dropped them on the floor and worked up a lather. He took a deep breath before beginning, centering himself, preparing for a reaction, because if this didn't get Geralt to open up, nothing would.

Geralt didn't react much at first as Jaskier spread the soap around. When he laced his fingers through the silky strands of hair, nails lightly scratching at the scalp, he heard the first hitched breath. A shiver followed and Jaskier worked his fingers deeper into Geralt's hair, massaging his scalp, trailing light touches down his neck, behind his ears, anywhere that seemed to spark a similar reaction.

Geralt's eyes fell closed at the first touch and his shoulders rolled back, trying to get closer to Jaskier. He'd never felt such magic, not once in his very long life, and he never wanted it to stop. Tingles and small tremors made their way down his spine, spreading through his shoulders and lower back. Geralt's hands latched onto the side of the tub again as he tried to keep himself from breaking apart. His lips parted and Geralt did not recognize the moan that escaped his own mouth.

“Jaskier...” he panted.

The fingers pressing against his scalp stopped moving for a second, but the tingling sensation remained, slowly ebbing away. “Do you want me to stop?”

 _Never_. Geralt bit down on the word and said, “No,” instead.

“Alright.” Hands resumed their movements, scratching from the top of his head, all the way down his neck. Gentle fingers took over next, swirling soap over the shell of his ear. Another embarrassing moan dripped from his lips and he tried to bite down on the next one.

“Jaskier... what... is this...”

“I told you,” the silky smooth voice so near his ear made Geralt jump, the tingling fire cascading down his spine once again, “I'm very good at this. Will you tell me now? How long has it been since someone's touched you? _Really_ touched you.”

Geralt managed to answer around the lump in his throat. “Winter. At Kaer Morhen, my brothers and I—” He bit his tongue, barely stopping himself from spilling his and Eskel's _understanding_. Eskel would never forgive him for exposing their private dealings, and to a bard of all people.

“Hmm,” Jaskier hummed thoughtfully and Geralt was so distracted, his mind so utterly filled with nothing but _Jaskier_ , he hadn't a blessed clue what that hum meant. “You don't need to give specifics if you don't want. That is a very long time, though.” A soapy hand started rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you want me to keep going?” Geralt opened his mouth and barely held back a piteous whine. Jaskier switched tactics. “How about this: do you want me to stop?”

Now this question Geralt could answer. “No.”

“Alright.” Jaskier started on the dirt on Geralt's chest, one hand lingering on his back, rubbing soothing circles. “I'll keep going until you tell me to stop, how does that sound?”

“Fine,” he managed to bite out. Geralt couldn't imagine a scenario where he'd ask Jaskier to stop, but no was easier than yes. No implied a limit, yes implied weakness and wanting...

For the next twenty minutes, Jaskier touched Geralt everywhere, long after the dirt, blood and grime were washed form his skin and hair, soft fingers continued to trace the bulges of his muscles, the angle of his jaw. Geralt tried not to gasp when nails raked lightly across his skin and failed every time. He didn't stop Jaskier, not once, he never wanted it to stop.

Jaskier himself brought it to an end, hands still touching, but not moving. “The water is cold,” he said. “Let me dress your wound and we can continue on the bed? Do you want that?”

Geralt didn't say yes, yes was still too difficult. He stood up and grabbed the bath sheet from the floor, hastily drying himself before sitting on the bed, back to Jaskier. He quickly glanced over his shoulder to make sure the bard followed and saw him gathering the forgotten first aid supplies on the table. Geralt forgot all about his wound. It probably didn't need bandaging anymore...

The bed dipped and Jaskier sat behind him—far too close and not close enough—and gentle hands smoothed across his skin again. Geralt shuddered. It was a spell, it had to be, there was no other reason he'd want to fall apart... but his medallion was silent against his chest. There was no magic here, no explanation... Geralt was simply weak.

He didn't ask Jaskier to stop.

Those hands vanished as soon as the dressing was secured in place and Geralt tried not to whine at the loss. Then, Jaskier pressed a gentle kiss in the middle of his back, obliterating any thought Geralt had ever had. He went stiff, trying to process all the new sensations—the idea that any human might want him, no coin attached.

Jaskier saw Geralt's back tighten up and pulled away a little. “Sorry, a little too far? I thought, with earlier, you wouldn't mind... I won't do it—”

Lightning fast, Geralt spun around and grabbed Jaskier, pulling him to his chest and smashing their lips together. The bed was already a much better venue than the tub and there was nothing to stop him now, not his control, or even his sanity. Geralt ripped the ruined shirt off Jaskier's body and set his eyes on his breeches.

“I've got it!” Jaskier pushed his hands away and quickly untied the laces. “I don't have another pair...”

Geralt took over from there, growling when the wet fabric didn't come away as easily as he wanted. He still had enough presence of mind not to rip (he didn't fancy walking the world with a naked bard, a clothed one was enough trouble already) and eventually worked the wet material down over Jaskier's knees, freeing his cock.

Another growl built low in his chest when the first wave of scent hit him—Jaskier's true scent, undiluted or covered with one perfume or another—and he buried his face in Jaskier's groin, inhaling deeply.

“Fuck!” Jaskier tried to curl in, hold Geralt tighter, but one strong hand held him down. Fingers bit into his hip, a little too tight. Jaskier didn't mind the bruises, but Geralt would beat himself up over it tomorrow. He mentally prepared for that moment, given their current circumstances (Geralt's face next to his cock) he didn't know if the Witcher would push him away again, or try to apologize with more rough kisses. Jaskier definitely preferred the latter.

Obviously not one for subtlety, Geralt opened his mouth and sucked Jaskier down to the root. But his lack of foreplay did not mean a lack of technique, Jaskier imagined decades of practice, a wealth of experience other people were too stupid to tap. Well, Jaskier was not stupid. He threw his head back and tried to grab hold of as much of Geralt as possible, twining his fingers in silky hair, the other hand gripping his uninjured shoulder.

“Yes,” he panted. “Oh, that's so good. Thank you... thank you...” Jaskier's babbling words soon trailed off into nonsense sounds. Geralt preferred it that way, less of a chance for Jaskier to say something he'd regret.

With both hands pinning Jaskier to the bed, Geralt took his time tasting every inch, licking around the head, teasing Jaskier's foreskin. With every lick, he inhaled deeply, reveling in the smell of Jaskier's skin, but also watching for any... negative emotions.

He smelled arousal, yes, the thick musky perfume of Jaskier's lust poured off him, flowing over Geralt like a thick fog. Happiness too, Jaskier smelled of sunshine from the moment he woke in the morning to the moment he went to sleep. These were all familiar scents that perfumed Jaskier beyond the oils he splashed on when he had the coin to indulge himself, but they weren't the emotions Geralt was looking for...

Fear stunk to high hell and Geralt was very familiar with the scent of human fear. But he'd never smelled it on Jaskier, not once since they'd met, not when Geralt punched him in the stomach, not when they were in actual danger from one beast or another. And he didn't smell it now. He searched and searched as his tongue swirled around the head of Jaskier's cock, tickling the slit, but there wasn't a hint, not a trace of fear. He saw the bruises already blooming across Jaskier's skin, remembered how he bent him over the tub, surely straining his back, and yet, Jaskier was not afraid of him.

Geralt was so busy searching for any sign that Jaskier might bolt (leave him, like everyone else did) that he almost missed the body straining under his hands. Jaskier's nonsense words came faster, more substance to them: “Oh fuck, oh fuck, Geralt, I'm... oh—”

Bitter come splashed across Geralt's tongue and he swallowed it down. When the last, weak pulse shook Jaskier, he pulled away, licking his lips. Jaskier moaned at the sight. “You didn't have to... not that I don't, uh, appreciate. Ugh,” his head fell back into the bed, “thank you.”

“It's alright.” Geralt moved off him. “You helped me. I help you.”

“No trouble.” One of Jaskier's hands flailed limply, indicating Geralt's aching erection. “Give me a moment and I'll sort you out.”

“You don't have to.”

Geralt tried to stand up, retreat from the bed, when Jaskier caught his wrist. Still loose limbed and euphoric, he didn't think the bard could move that fast. Luminous blue eyes smiled up at him. “Of course I'll reciprocate. What kind of bastard do you think I am?” Jaskier thought better of the question and tried to tug Geralt closer. “Don't answer that. Come here. Tell me what I can do for you.”

Geralt sat back against the headboard of the bed and let Jaskier crawl into his lap. Those talented fingers brushed through his hair again and his eyes fluttered shut. He grabbed Jaskier's wrists before he was too far gone, holding Jaskier in place. “You're not afraid of me.”

Those too soft eyes smiled at him. “No, I'm not.”

“Most people are.”

Jaskier shrugged. “Most people are stupid.”

“Hmm.” Geralt held on for one more moment before releasing his hold on Jaskier, allowing the young man to do as he pleased.

With a sparkle in his eye, Jaskier pressed kisses and soft nips across Geralt's chest, making his way down... down... down, until that beautiful mouth settled over his cock. Geralt didn't try to hold back his moans this time.

~

They rode out of town the next morning after seeing the blacksmith about Geralt's armor. The harpy injury on his shoulder was already healing, the armor, not so much. Jaskier managed to get him a good price on a replacement pauldron—it would do until he got a proper one from the stock at Kaer Morhen this winter—and they were on their way.

Jaskier smiled, bright like the sun, and tossed his head back. “See? I do have my uses.” Geralt grunted in reply.

They didn't speak the rest of their journey, well, Geralt didn't speak, Jaskier couldn't stop. He sang to himself and hummed, had a conversation with Roach for a few miles. When Geralt stopped and nodded towards a grove of trees, Jaskier sprang into action, running off to gather firewood before Geralt had dismounted.

Geralt set up camp while Jaskier searched for firewood. He need the time and space to think... He was never in his right mind at an inn, or a town, but out here in the woods, without another living soul, Geralt finally started to understand what happened last night.

When Jaskier returned, Geralt quickly made a fire and stripped out of his armor. Much to his surprise, Jaskier stayed quiet, he didn't whisper or hum to himself as he rooted through their bags in search of dinner. With his swords safely within reach, and his armor set to the side, Geralt took a few deep breaths, meditating for a moment to clear his mind.

“Jaskier,” he said.

“Yes?” Jaskier didn't get up from his seat, but those heavenly eyes turned up towards Geralt, smile lighting up his face and Geralt melted just a little bit more.

He extended a hand down and pulled Jaskier to his chest, burying his face in his hair and breathing deep. It took a moment for Jaskier's shock to wear off, but once he realized he wasn't dreaming, he relaxed into Geralt's strong arms, waiting to see where the Witcher took them next.

Geralt spent what felt like ages breathing Jaskier in, searching once more for the smallest hint of fear. None came. He pulled back and peered deep into Jaskier's eyes. “Will you... touch me. Please. I need...” he grit his teeth, trying to force the words from deep inside, “I need you, to touch me.”

“Of course.” Just like the night before, Jaskier tangled his fingers in Geralt's hair, scratching and caressing his scalp, running soft touches along his neck and ears.

A rumbling purr built deep in the Witcher's chest and he closed his eyes, giving over to the sensations... but it wasn't enough. He squeezed Jaskier closer, probably too hard but he didn't care at the moment. “Kiss me.”

“Yes.” Plush lips pressed against his, immediately parting so Geralt could deepen the kiss. More moans, pathetic, piteous noises Geralt didn't know he was capable of making. Jaskier made him weak, made him _want_ , and he did not care. Anger and shame would surely make themselves known in the morning, but right now, Geralt had Jaskier hot and warm against him, those hands touching, doing whatever he asked... it was bliss.

After a moment, Geralt broke the kiss, pulling back long enough to ask, “Can I fuck you?”

“Yes.” Jaskier nodded to their bedrolls. “Oil's in my bag.”

Geralt desperately wanted to fuck Jaskier—his cock thick and leaking in his breeches at the mere thought—but he also did not want to let go. “Up,” he commanded, sliding a hand under Jaskier's ass.

Understanding dawned and Jaskier jumped, wrapping his legs around Geralt's hips. “You really know how to get a bloke going, don't you?” he laughed.

Geralt said nothing. He brought them over to the bedrolls (Jaskier hadn't said anything about their closeness) and retrieved Jaskier's bag, finding the oil on top of his clothing. He chuckled softly. “Expecting something?”

Jaskier at least had the decency to blush. “After last night, I thought, maybe... either it was going to happen again, or I was going to wank off while thinking about your mouth on my cock.” Considering Jaskier was in his arms, they couldn't get any closer, imagine Geralt's surprise when Jaskier did, in fact, manage to get closer. Plastering himself against his chest, his lips brushed Geralt's ear, sending a shiver down his spine. “Whatever you want from me, you can have it. _Anything_.”

The words hit Geralt like a punch to the gut. “I want... I want you to touch me.”

Slender fingers brushed the back of his neck. “I can do that.”

Cool fire spread across his skin wherever Jaskier touched and all too soon, Geralt couldn't take it. Growling softly, he dropped Jaskier onto the bedroll, blanketing on top of him. He pulled roughly at their clothes—careful with Jaskier's last pair of breeches, but not caring about the rest—until they were both gloriously naked. Jaskier stayed calm through it all, his fingers dancing over Geralt's neck and shoulders, touching each patch of skin as it was revealed to him. He spared one hand to uncork the oil and spread it across his cock, using the remainder to slick Jaskier's hole. The bard cooed and arched at the touches, rough as they were, panting and moaning Geralt's name when his cock finally, _finally_ , slid home.

Geralt rolled and snapped his hips (too hard, too fast) but he couldn't stop. Jaskier locked his ankles behind Geralt's hips, spurring him on, still whispering soft, caring words into his ear. “Yes, yes, I love this. You're so strong and wonderful. I love the way you feel inside me...”

No one had ever talked to him like that, not when he paid for it, not when he and Eskel snuck off together and pretended it didn't mean much more than simple pleasure. The gentle hands on his skin—even as he pulled roughly at Jaskier—the soft words in his ear... too much softness and he'd be ruined.

Geralt wanted to let Jaskier ruin him.


	2. I Cannot Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little time away from Jaskier was good. He'd clear his head, get his edge back. Geralt almost let Jaskier ruin him, but not anymore... He needed no one and it was about time he remembered that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only the last section of this chapter takes place during "Soap, and the Scents of Home." It'll be really obvious when you get there, otherwise, everything else is prequel. Thank you to everyone who's been following this series, I really appreciate all the comments, they make me so happy, you could never know how much <3
> 
> All mistakes are mine, please let me know if you find a typo. And as always, I hope everyone enjoys :)

Another town, another notice board. Geralt glanced at it and took the one contract of note. Jaskier was about to follow him when familiar sweeping calligraphy caught his eye. He looked back at the board, at the notice that caught his eye.

_**Oxenfurt Festival of Music and Dance** _

“The festival already?” he whispered to himself. Pausing for a moment, Jaskier considered the heat of the day and counted... “Fuck! It's already late summer!” Between all the contracts, song writing, and Geralt's insatiable libido (Jaskier thought he was a bottomless pit of lust, but he had nothing on Geralt) he'd lost track of the seasons. The biggest festival in Oxenfurt was a mere two weeks away.

“Shit, Geralt!” He ran across the town square, following Geralt's brooding form. With the black armor and the white hair, he was hard to lose track of at midday. “Geralt, wait! I have a situation!”

Geralt stopped in the middle of the path and Jaskier almost slammed into his back. “What?”

Clutching a stitch in his side, Jaskier pointed back towards the notice board. “There's a festival... Oxenfurt Festival of Music. It's an annual affair, I have to go.” His breath back to normal, he stood up. “I've gone every year since I was sixteen, I don't want to miss it, especially now I've got a hit on my hands.” For the first time since they'd met, a hint of sadness pulled at the corners of Jaskier's smile. “I'm not asking you to come with me, you have your work and it definitely isn't your scene. But...”

Jaskier shifted, anxiety and sadness curling through his usually bright scent. Geralt didn't like it. “Speak plainly, what are you asking?” For the first time he could remember, Jaskier didn't meet Geralt's eyes. Looking around the town—making sure no one was watching—Geralt stepped closer. “Jaskier, what's going on?” It was a festival, a boring music festival, why did the idea of going make the bard smell so sad?

Jaskier sighed and looked Geralt in the eye. “I want to go, but I'm afraid if I leave now, I'll never see you again.” _Because you don't really want me around._

Geralt bit the inside of his cheek and looked around again. Too many eyes, too many ears... they couldn't talk here. “We'll talk tonight.”

“Alright.” He followed Geralt to the tavern where they inquired after the mayor about his contract.

Dispatching a few drowners didn't take long, it was barely worth the pay, but at least they had enough for a good hot meal before Geralt turned them back towards the road and out of town. Normally, Jaskier might request they spend a night in the comfortable inn, but he knew Geralt didn't want to _talk_ in some strange room. “Too many people,” Geralt always mumbled, and for once Jaskier agreed. He didn't like the way those town's folk stared at them as they went by... or maybe traveling with Geralt was making him paranoid.

They made camp just before sunset. Geralt started the fire while Jaskier tended to Roach and unpacked their things. Jaskier kept one eye on Geralt as they worked; the Witcher had a few tell tale signs to indicate when he finally felt safe. Well, maybe not safe, but... more secure than normal. He walked a circle around their camp, sniffing the air, then started removing his armor.

Jaskier had gotten to know Geralt very well these past few months. He knew when the White Wolf was happy—rarely, but it happened—he recognized the difference between Geralt's spikes of anger (angry at the world in general, or Jaskier specifically) and between bouts of athletic sex and the calming touches that always made Geralt shiver, Jaskier could tell when he was ready to have a real conversation. It wasn't all grunts and one word sentences, in the right surroundings, Geralt was practically a chatter box, he simply did not waste his words.

Geralt actually talked quite a bit now-a-days, telling of his past contracts, funny stories from his Witcher training, there was one about a bee and a jug that had Jaskier's sides splitting. The thrashing Geralt and his fellow student received after was less amusing, but conversations like these only happened in private, never at an inn or where they might be overheard. The more Jaskier learned about Geralt, the more his heart broke—Geralt was a beautiful soul forced into the darkest parts of the world, and with nothing to nurture his light, it dimmed. Jaskier made it his mission in life to relight that flame, no matter what, he'd bring Geralt into the sunlight.

He waited patiently for the last signal that Geralt was ready to talk. Armor safely placed out of the way, Geralt did one more circle around the camp, listening for any nearby living heart beat. If he heard anything bigger than a buck, Geralt clammed up for the night, if they were truly alone...

Geralt swept over and wrapped his arms around Jaskier, pulling him flush against his chest and burying his nose into the bard's neck. “You'll ruin me,” he mumbled into soft, fragrant skin.

Jaskier rubbed his hands down Geralt's back. This was the last step in the process: Geralt had to deny he needed Jaskier before he let himself go. Jaskier was more than used to it. They stood together for a long moment as Geralt got his fill, after a hard day's fighting and too little reward, Jaskier's warm body brought him back to center.

With one last deep sniff, he lifted his head, but did not release Jaskier. Golden eyes burned into him and Jaskier almost forgot to breathe. “What were you talking about earlier?”

That slow metronomic heart beat against Jaskier's chest and he closed his eyes, losing himself for a moment. “There's a festival,” he managed to whisper, Geralt's body was really very distracting, it was a wonder Jaskier got anything done at all. “At Oxenfurt. I never miss it. I'll have to leave in the morning to get there on time.” He pressed their foreheads together. “But I'm afraid, if I leave now, I'll never see you again.” Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes and Jaskier suddenly understood why Geralt didn't want to have this conversation in town.

Geralt said nothing for a very, very long time... too long. Jaskier started to pull back, ready to give him space—Geralt let him get away with so much, the bathing, the scented oils, there had to be a line—and crying about their paths diverging might just be that line. But strong arms held him tight. “Relax, Jaskier, breathe.”

Only then did he realize he wasn't. Jaskier took a gulping breath and Geralt lifted a hand to stroke his hair. It was a little odd, usually Jaskier did the comforting. “We will see each other again. If you want.” Geralt considered the warm air around them. “I winter at Kaer Morhen, maybe next spring...” Geralt hummed, kissing Jaskier's neck. “I can meet you outside Oxenfurt at the beginning of spring. Might take me a few extra days if a contract comes up, but I will be there if you want me.”

Jaskier grabbed him by the chin and crushed their lips together, kissing Geralt hard enough to steal his breath away. “Yes, I want you.” _I will always want you_. He bit down on his tongue to stop the words. The past season might have seen Geralt open up a little, but unrestrained declarations of love were probably still too much. Most of Jaskier's personality was _too much_ , and Geralt put up with him anyway, no reason to change the status quo.

“Then we will meet outside Oxenfurt at the beginning of spring.” Shifting his hold a little, one of Geralt's hands cupped Jaskier's ass, pulling his hips in to feel Geralt's half hard cock through their clothing. “What shall we do with our last night together?” he whispered.

“Make love to me?” Jaskier asked. He rolled his hips and felt Geralt's cock firm up, already aching to have it inside him.

Geralt paused for a second. “I can fuck you.”

“That'll do.”

Hungry lips descended on him again, licking and biting down his neck and across his collar bone. Jaskier stripped them both as Geralt found new patches of skin to kiss. When his breeches hit the ground, Geralt swept him up in a bridal carry, depositing him on their bedrolls. They were well practiced in the art of fucking on the road and Geralt usually set up camp to accommodate their needs—Jaskier's oil was well within reach and it took but a moment for Geralt to thrust two slick fingers inside him.

Geralt placed a hand on his hips and tried to urge Jaskier to roll over. Jaskier shook his head. “No, on my back. I want to hold on.” Dark eyelashes fluttered at him and Geralt nodded. He didn't mind looking at Jaskier when they fucked... it was just easier when he didn't have to look into those eyes, those far too soft eyes and creamy lips whispering words or adoration. One of these days, Jaskier would slip and sing of his love for Geralt... and Geralt might just believe him.

He knew this was wrong, he shouldn't have this. There was no love for a Witcher, no family or soft bed company, nothing more than pain and blood and a quick fuck with Eskel when they were all trapped together during winter. Geralt should not have this, and yet, he did... for the moment.

Lining up the head of his cock, he thrust in, Jaskier's arms and legs wrapping around him, holding them together. A few seasons apart would do them both good, give Geralt a chance to undo some of the damage Jaskier did to his fighting. Softness and comfort did not breed good Witchers. How many monsters almost got the better of him this season? Probably one too many—there was a close call with a pack of wargs, almost got their teeth into him as Geralt paused to shove Jaskier up a tree to safety. And a group of drowners, one very nearly grabbed his ankle after he chopped off its leg...

A little time away from Jaskier was good. He'd clear his head, get his edge back. Geralt almost let Jaskier ruin him, but not anymore... He needed no one and it was about time he remembered that.

~

The morning Jaskier set off for Oxenfurt, Geralt found another contract. Or rather, another contract found _him_. He'd barely gotten two miles away from their camp when a piercing squawk sliced through the air. Roach shifted uncomfortably (which was as panicked as she got after so many years of monsters) and Geralt turned to see a fucking royal griffin flying towards him, talons extended.

Oh no, no fucking griffin got a hold of his mare.

Silver sword in hand, Geralt palmed grapeshot bomb and urged Roach into a gallop. Just before she reached top speed, he jumped off, throwing the bomb towards the griffin. The beast roared, some of its feathers igniting, sending it off course. Geralt readied another bomb but as he went to throw, the creature landed not ten feet away, screaming its head off.

Sliding across a patch of wet ground, Geralt reached the griffin in record time, stabbing it through the heart. The corpse went limp against the ground. For a moment, Geralt stood, just... staring at the beast. This was by far the easiest griffin he'd ever taken down. No accidental lacerations, no ill-timed stumbles, it was a perfect hunt.

Geralt shook himself and beheaded the griffin, with any luck, a nearby town would pay. He didn't like doing work before he knew of a definite contract, but when the choice was between Roach's head and the griffin's, saving Roach was the obvious choice.

With a sharp whistle, Roach trotted back into his sight line, looking no worse for the wear. She nickered softly as he lashed the head to the saddle, but stayed still. Geralt went back to harvest a few ingredients from the body and they were off.

He didn't reach a town until almost sunset and a quick look at the notice board yielded no griffin contracts. Geralt gave up for the night and went to get a room at the inn with the last of his coin. Stabling Roach, he concealed the griffin head under a spare bit of canvas, but not fast enough to keep it from the eyes of the stable boy.

His mouth feel open. “You got it!” he gasped.

Geralt straightened up and started the boy down. He didn't run, just stood there with his mouth open catching flies. “The griffin? Is there a contract?”

“Yes, sir Witcher, there is. You need to see the mayor! I'll fetch him!” The boy was off like a shot before Geralt had time to ask any details. He shook his head and headed into the tavern, let the mayor meet him there, if he came at all. The word of a stable boy didn't mean much, and a stable boy with news of a Witcher in town might mean even less.

Geralt ordered a pint and settled down in a dark corner of the tavern. He kept his hood down though, just in case this contract actually came through... he didn't want to hold his breath. The door burst open as he brought the pint to his lips. A large-ish man with a modest gut appeared, the stable boy at his side. His eyes swept the room before falling on Geralt, and his face fucking lit up.

“You killed it! Dane says you killed it!” Pushing past several other customers, the mayor made his way over to Geralt and grabbed his hand, shaking it hard enough to pull at Geralt's shoulder. “Oh, you don't know what good you've done! The griffin's mate died month and a half ago—hunters found the body—and it's been wreaking havoc ever since! Not a single farm in this area has a full flock left. Thank you! Thank you!”

Geralt grunted. The mayor was still shaking his hand. “You don't want to see the head?” People usually weren't this happy to have him in town, and they definitely weren't this happy to _touch_ a Witcher (Jaskier was the exception to that, he was the exception to so many things...). They usually demanded proof, then tried to swindle him out of his pay, and that was a best case scenario.

“Dane told me, it's in the stables. We can fetch it later. For now, you must have food! Gregor!” he shouted to the man behind the bar. “Bring a hot meal for the Master Witcher! And a room for the night! Put it on my tab!” He turned back to Geralt, still shaking his hand. “What is your name, sir? I didn't catch it.”

“Geralt of Rivia.”

If possible, the mayor's eyes went wider, flicking up to Geralt's hair. “Of course! The White Wolf! Oh, I should have known. Gregor! Another pint for the White Wolf!”

The mayor gestured for Geralt to sit and joined him at the table. A moment later, two busty bard maids appeared with food and ale, and—the most shocking of all—smiles for the Witcher. They greeted the mayor as fit his station, then greeted Geralt as well before withdrawing to the kitchen.

“Eat, eat!” The mayor insisted, digging in to his own plate. “This is a celebration. You finally freed us from that griffin.”

Geralt took a few bites of the (surprisingly fantastic) chicken leg, then sat back and thought for a moment. Joyful greetings, smiles, this was... unusual. At least, unusual on his own, Jaskier managed to pull this sort of mirth out of anyone, but Geralt tended to frighten people away, even if they were grateful for his work.

While he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he had to know. “Lord Mayor—”

“Please, please, call me Old Tom, everyone does. There are no lords in these parts, least of all myself.”

“Old Tom,” Geralt began again. “I don't wish to spurn your hospitality... but this seems a lot for one griffin.” While Geralt didn't see gratitude much, he was familiar with it. Ridding a town of a long curse usually brought out such a reaction, or purging a wraith from the town well so the people could access life giving water again without sending their daughters miles away to the nearest river. But for a simple griffin, even a royal griffin, this was too much.

Old Tom's smile dimmed a little. “Geralt of Rivia, look around you. We are but poor shepherds and weavers. Our flocks are the life blood of this community, if we have no wool to trade at market, the town dies. Farmer Kern and his wife lost their whole flock to the griffin a fortnight past. Their livelihood gone, they were found dead by their own hand two days later. I do not wish to see any more of my people die, and you have saved my town. It might be just a griffin to you, but to us, it was as if a plague struck our flocks. You have rid us of that plague and I thank you.”

Geralt listened to the man's words carefully. The folk of this village were in a sad state, not quite destitute, but obviously poor. A meal and a free room might be all that came of this contract, Geralt wasn't so greedy as to demand more. “And I thank you for the hospitality.” He lifted his mug to the mayor and took a deep pull. At least he'd be well fed tonight.

Old Tom sat with him for the rest of the meal, asking for stories of Geralt's adventures. A skinny man in a bright hat entered just as Geralt finished his food and Old Tom barked at him. “Caleb! Get your lute, you lay about! Sing that coin song for our Witcher guest.”

The village bard (apparently) nodded and pulled the lute off his back. He sat at the end of the bar and started singing the familiar words. His voice wasn't as sweet as Jaskier's and his playing wasn't as quick or bright, but the song was still good. It got the whole room singing and a few braver towns folk came over to greet Geralt, some promising their services in trade for his.

“I'll look after your mare tonight,” a man who looked remarkably like the stable boy said. “Don't you worry, my boy Dane is good, but I'll take care of her myself. She'll have the finest hay I have.”

“Come by my forge 'afore you leave in the mornin',” a man in a leather apron said while waving an empty tankard. “I'll see your swords have a sharp edge for the rest of your travels.”

A woman wearing a lovely embroidered wool skirt—easily the best dressed person in the tavern aside from the mayor himself—smiled at him, her eyes appraising his armor. “Cold's still a ways off, but every man needs a good cloak. I have one that's too broad in the shoulder for any man in this village, but it'll suit you. I'll have it for you in the morning.”

The mayor pushed another pint in front of Geralt. He drank and watched the towns folk make merry long after he'd normally withdraw to his room. When he finished his third pint, Old Tom waved away the bar maid away and stood up. “Now, I'm sure you want a rest. Gregor will show you to your room. He'll let me know when you take off in the morning so I can say a proper goodbye.” With a nod of his head, Old Tom wished Geralt a goodnight.

Geralt stood from the table and followed the innkeeper up the stairs to his room. In a tiny town like this, there were only a handful of rooms and they were all the same, no double beds here, but the room was clean and the bed looked fine. Geralt nodded his thanks and the innkeeper returned to the tavern.

When Geralt stripped his armor and lay down on the bed, he shook his head. “What a fucking night.” He'd definitely tell this story when he returned to Kaer Morhen this winter, the others probably wouldn't believe it though.

As he closed his eyes, one last thought pulled at Geralt's mind before he dropped into sleep. _Jaskier would have loved this_.

The next contract he found wasn't so easy. It seemed the fates reverted back to form, not only did Geralt struggle for the kill (ghoul almost got a bite of him) he struggled for his pay as well. The alderman didn't believe a single Witcher bested an infestation of ghouls, and instead of taking the man by the scruff and dragging him to the graveyard, Geralt simply produced ten ghoul heads from a sack, placing them in a row across the alderman's dining table.

“You sent me after six ghouls, and I found ten. Either it was a lie or your scouts should be flogged. I'll take my coin now.”

The alderman paid up and Geralt left town, he wasn't enthusiastic about contributing to the local economy after they tried to stiff him. That night when he made camp, he went over the kills in his head. The one that got too close... Geralt should have seen it coming, but he was still soft, still thinking about the bard, letting himself get distracted.

A few more contracts and he'd be back to rights.

The weeks passed. Geralt sought out more contracts than usual, he had to, without Jaskier's busking to supplement his income, which was fine, this was the way things ought to be. A Witcher should only rely on himself. There were a few close calls, and a few easy kills, more of the latter than the former. Geralt saw this as a good sign, a return to form. But any tiny mistake had him questioning himself again. How deeply had Jaskier softened him? Months apart and Geralt still had close calls, a drowner who got in a lucky swipe he had to patch up by himself, a kikimore who managed to get him under the water for a moment... small mistakes, yes, but small mistakes led to bigger mistakes. He couldn't be this undiciplined.

The nights grew colder much faster than Geralt thought they should. He slept closer to his fire, but the cold never went away. The leaves weren't even turning yet, he didn't understand the deep chill inside his body, or the way his skin felt like it was covered in a layer of ice.

Geralt managed to take a few more contracts before the journey to Kaer Morhen, and most went well, but the small mistakes still bothered him. As soon as they readied the castle for winter and the training regime began, he went right to Vesemir, ignoring Lambert and Eskel as they started sparring.

“I need to brush up my basics,” he said. Vesemir arched an eyebrow at him, waiting for more. _Basics_ covered a lot of ground, and such a broad focus might take all fucking winter. “I've been a little sloppy. Too many near misses.”

He told Vesemir of claws nearly raking his skin, drowners getting too close, and the ghoul who almost got a bite of him. Vesemir listened, nodding a little. “It sounds like you're in good form,” he said when Geralt finished listing his supposed failures. “We can go over footwork if you want, but it doesn't appear you were in any danger. Close brushes happen, we parry and lunge again, that is the way of it.”

Geralt shifted, clenching around the sword in his hand. It was rare that Vesemir gave... unsatisfying answers, at least where training was concerned. “Little mistakes can lead to bigger mistakes,” he tried.

Vesemir shrugged again. “Yours obviously haven't since you made it home this year.” Those too old eyes considered Geralt, his tense shoulders, the frown creasing his face. “Footwork, we'll go over footwork basics. If you wish.”

“I do.”

“Very well.” Vesemir retrieved his sword and they began. Geralt kept up easily, stepping correctly to counter each attack, staying light on the balls of his feet, dodging... it was all perfect.

Afternoons at Kaer Morhen were spent how each Witcher pleased, and Geralt usually pleased to stay with Eskel. Lambert had a guest this winter, and Geralt and Eskel tried to stay as far away as possible as they fucked everywhere—literally, Geralt walked in on Lambert and Coën in one of the damn staircases—so locations for their own recreation were limited. Curled up in front of the fire in Eskel's room, Geralt tried to wade through a dry treatise on potions while Eskel dozed next to him.

They weren't touching excessively, every once in a while, Geralt's hand brushed Eskel's hip, pulling away just as quickly, or Eskel leaned into Geralt's lap to see how far he'd gotten in that brick of a book. They'd fuck eventually, of course, in winter, fucking was one of their main pass times behind training and drinking. It didn't mean much, they grew up together, they were in the same class, they fooled around like boys often did, it didn't have to mean anything...

Only, it felt different this winter, it felt like _more_. Sitting so close to Eskel, the layer of ice over Geralt's skin and the cold inside his heart thawed a little. It reminded him of Jaskier, the way the bard trailed in his wake, soft human fingers playing across his skin, warm lips against his. The softness Jaskier produced in him flared up and Geralt was suddenly consumed by the need to _touch_ Eskel, and never stop.

He closed the book with a thwap and Eskel's lips twitched. “Eskel...”

Eskel smirked. He didn't move or open his eyes, but he already knew what Geralt wanted. The change in his smell made it obvious. “You want to fuck.”

“I want to kiss you first.”

Or, maybe Eskel didn't know what Geralt wanted, exactly. His smile changed, softened a little at the corners. He opened his eyes and peered over at Geralt, shrugging. “Haven't done that in a long time. Why not?”

Eskel tried to sit up and make his way to the bed, but Geralt caught his shoulder, pulling him back onto the rug. He climbed on top of Eskel, pinning him down, then pressed their lips together. Eskel started to struggle, but soon realized Geralt wasn't trying to wrestle him; their current position had them touching from knees to chest, Geralt blanketed on top of him, their hearts beating together. Closing his eyes, Eskel kissed back, nibbling Geralt's bottom lip before opening his mouth and allowing the other Witcher free reign.

Geralt spent a long moment licking into Eskel's mouth, exploring in a way he hadn't done in years. It was always carnal between them—fucking hard and fast to sate the fire burning inside—and what kisses they did share were biting and bruising. Eskel still bit him, but that was just the start. Hands so like his own curled around Geralt's hips, holding them together.

As Eskel let Geralt kiss and kiss and kiss, the cold emptiness inside of him started to fill. This feeling... Geralt didn't understand it, but it reminded him of how he felt with Jaskier. His feelings for Eskel were a little different, they both filled a shape inside him, where Jaskier was smooth and glowing, Eskel had jagged edges that prodded at old memories, and the light emitting from him was bright as a flame. The heat from both kept Geralt warm and for the first time in his life, he realized he could never be without either again.

He let Eskel fuck him, that's how it always went. Even in their castle with no prying eyes, Eskel never gave himself over until the sun went down. Later tonight, he'd crawl into Geralt's bed and let the White Wolf whisper soothing words into his skin as Geralt moved inside him, but in the light of day, Eskel hardly let his guard down. Geralt never had a second thought about it, until now. Suddenly, he wanted to see Eskel, open and warm and vulnerable beneath him, the sun on his face. He wanted things he'd never wanted before. More importantly, he wanted his bard back.

The trip down the mountain was colder this year. As soon as Geralt and Eskel parted, the warmth in his chest started to freeze over again. The though of walking away from Eskel sat like a shard of ice in Geralt's gut, but the thought of walking towards Jaskier made the ice start to melt.

Down in the valley, the spring air did nothing to warm Geralt's skin. He pulled the cloak he got from the griffin contract tighter around his shoulders. It was a beautiful cloak with a silver clasp and a few delicate patterns embroidered around the edges. The town tailor smiled when she put it on him. “Fits perfect! You're broader than all the lads around here, glad I finally got use for this cloak. It was a shame to see it in the store room for so long.”

“Thank you,” Geralt said, running his fingers across the fur collar. Buttons around the neckline showed it was detachable, and he found more than a few secret pockets sewn into the lining, the thread so subtle, he almost missed it. “Who was this made for?” No way a tailor in a poor village like this made a cloak this fine without a customer already in mind.

The tailor's smile fell. “My son. He went off to war. Never came back.” She took a breath and schooled her features into her professional smile once more. “It's good to see it get some use. Come winter, it'll be the best cloak you ever had.”

“Thank you,” Geralt said again.

He couldn't wait to tell Jaskier that story.

~

Of all the stupid, ill conceived plans Jaskier had been a part of, this was definitely the worst. He and Geralt agreed to meet at the beginning of spring outside Oxenfurt. There was only one thing outside Oxenfurt worth going to: a bath house. The self same bath house Jaskier learned so much in—of love and of soap—but while Geralt enjoyed a good bath, he'd never be caught dead in an actual bath house. The obscuring steam, the deviant gentry trying to hide their less than courtly liaisons, not to mention the well off thieves meeting in a misty corner. Geralt would stick out like a sore thumb, leading to suspicion and arguments, all while naked with one's sensitive bits hanging out.

There was also an inn next to the bath house, a companion business of sorts that popped up after the spa got a little fame. This is where Jaskier told Geralt to meet him and this was where he'd been sitting. For three days.

Yes, _beginning of spring_ was a little subjective, but only by about a week or so. Trees were in full bloom, flowers were making pollen like crazy, and the noisy fucking birds were noisily fucking all the fucking time. Spring had sprung! So where was Geralt?

“He's left you,” Jaskier whispered to himself. _No_ , the unhelpful little voice in his head supplied, _for him to leave you, you must've had him to begin with, and you certainly did not_. Jaskier wasn't a fool (at least, he didn't think he was) sleeping with someone didn't mean there was commitment. Sleeping with a bard, doubly so, sleeping with a Witcher... he didn't know, trebly so or whatever. With their long lives, Jaskier was surely just a momentary fancy, and he was already over him.

He shouldn't have gone to the festival. Sure, he made more coin than he had all year, and a few of his old professors asked him to speak to their classes, which led to more introductions, more performance opportunities, and yet more coin. Coin he spent on a new performance outfit, pages for his composition book, oils and a few ingredients if he had the time to tinker with his scents, and some chamomile oil for Geralt's injuries.

He thumped his head against the bar again. “I'm an idiot.”

“Of course you are, but what is your latest infraction?”

Jaskier's heart skipped a beat. He knew that voice. He swirled around in his chair so fast, the blood drained from his head and dizziness swept over him. Leave it to Jaskier to actually swoon at the mere sound of Geralt's voice.

“Geralt! You made it!” Jaskier stumbled from his chair and stopped in front of Geralt. He held his hands behind his back to resist the urge to touch, showing off in public with another man was... not the best, even this close to a bath house. “I'm not drunk, just happy to see you. I've m—” Jaskier cut himself off before he got too emotional. “How was your year? Any interesting tales to not tell me and make me embellish?”

“It was fine,” Geralt said. Strange, his voice was the same low monotone, but his eyes, they... sparkled. A lightness at the corners showed the invisible smile Geralt wore, and the way he looked over Jaskier, like he wanted to devour him. “Did you eat? I'd like to get some road behind us and make camp.”

 _Make camp_. The first time they saw each other in almost a year and Geralt wanted to fuck. Oh yes, yes please. “I finished my meal,” Jaskier said. “Let me grab my bags and we'll be off!” Retrieving his lute and his bag from the counter, Jaskier returned to Geralt's side. “I don't have a bedroll anymore. I've had a lot of places to stay, so I sold it, it was too much to carry around, you see.”

“That's fine.” Geralt walked out the front doors and led Jaskier over to Roach. When they were far enough away from the inn, Geralt leaned in close, devious wolf smile curling his lips. “We can share.”

Jaskier's heart beat faster.

Geralt didn't speak much on the road. He let Jaskier tell about his year, about the festival, all the money he earned and how he still had most of it. “I'll keep us in meat and hot baths for a while,” he said. “Don't you worry.”

Geralt nodded. “Good. Traveling companions are better when they pay their own way.” Jaskier took a moment to pick apart that sentence. They were companions, that was one step below friends. Maybe Geralt really did care about him.

They stopped by a stream and made camp. Geralt took care of Roach before his eyes flicked over to Jaskier. “Make a fire. I'm going for a bath.”

“No problem.” Jaskier set about gathering kindling. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Geralt strip and wade into the stream, his enchanted body caring nothing for the cold water.

Back at the inn, Jaskier thought... Geralt's eyes, they said so much. But now they weren't talking. Alright, Geralt didn't speak much to begin with, but not even a “let's fuck after I bathe.” And now Geralt stood in the cold water, his back turned to Jaskier. Did that mean he wasn't... interested anymore?

No, no, he was reading too much into it. Pulling his eyes back into his head, Jaskier scoured the area for good fire wood, placing it in their camp just awaiting a good Igni.

Jaskier went to sit down and wait when Geralt's voice drifted over to him. “Jaskier, come wash my hair.”

While he didn't love the idea of wading in the cold stream, Jaskier couldn't wait to get his hands on Geralt, if shrunken balls were the price, he'd play it gladly. “Yes, of course!” he called back, opening his pack and taking out the nice pine soap he had. Geralt never said anything directly about any of Jaskier's scents, but he definitely noticed when the man didn't complain. He seemed to tolerate pine and other earthy scents, Jaskier made a mental note to get more earthy ingredients next time they needed soap.

There was a great splash of water and when Jaskier reached the stream's edge, Geralt's hair was dripping. He sat on the edge of the bank, half immersed in the water and waited for Jaskier to shed his doublet and roll up the bottoms of his breeches. Jaskier sat behind him, the chilly water making his toes curl as they dipped in.

Jaskier worked up a lather and Geralt tipped his head back, eyes open, staring back at him with the deepest, most undying trust Jaskier had ever seen. His breath caught for a moment, hands covered in soap before he snapped out of it and remembered what he was supposed to be doing.

As soon as Jaskier touched him, Geralt's eyes fluttered closed. Scratching his scalp, Jaskier groaned when a similar noise made its way between Geralt's parted lips. His fingers clenched and he tipped his head back farther, almost into Jaskier's lap. Jaskier tried to keep it together as he worked the soap into Geralt's hair, then dragged his fingers across his scalp, massaging the often ignored area. A quick swipe behind the ear had Geralt moaning again and once again, Jaskier moaned with him.

Amber eyes flickered open and Geralt smiled—actually fucking smiled—at him. “I missed you.”

It took a moment for Jaskier's voice to work. “I missed you t-too,” he finally managed to stammer out.

Geralt closed his eyes again and went silent for the rest of the wash, pulling away from Jaskier and dunking himself. He emerged from the water like some glorious water elemental, the cool stream tightening his skin, the sunset making him glow. Jaskier stood up and watched Geralt walk from the water, drops making their way over his bulging muscles, down his shapely thighs, and finally over his thick cock and sac. Jaskier was weak just watching it.

Without a word, Geralt extended an arm and pulled Jaskier to him. Despite the cold water, the Witcher's skin was on fire, and Jaskier couldn't stop the shiver of pleasure that ran through him. His cock, now fully hard in his breeches, pressed against Geralt's thigh, longing to be in Geralt's hand or his mouth, anywhere really.

Geralt smoothed a hand down Jaskier's back, cupping his ass, pulling him in closer. Their lips were a whisper away and yet he didn't close the gap. “Walking The Path alone again, made me... realize some things. When you're with me, I _feel_.” Jaskier waited for the rest of that sentence, but it never came. Instead, Geralt pulled him into a kiss, tongue pressing against his lips, requesting entrance. Jaskier opened his mouth and let Geralt invade, his castle gates always open for the White Wolf.

He pulled back and stroked a hand through Jaskier's hair, eyes sweeping over his face like Geralt was afraid he'd disappear. “I like the way you make me feel.”

“So do I.”

Geralt kissed him again and Jaskier never wanted it to stop. But the lack of breath made his head spin and when Jaskier pulled back to gulp in air then carry on with their activities, he only then noticed Geralt had picked him up. Settling them on the bedroll, Geralt nuzzled his face into Jaskier's neck, just below his ear. “You make me feel _warm_ ,” he mumbled, teeth lightly biting, raising faint marks that Jaskier would cherish for days. “You make me _feel_.”

“Yes, yes.” Jaskier held tight to Geralt like his life depended on it, but did not impede the man's movements. He let him travel downward, unlacing as he went, showering newly exposed skin with kisses.

Every once in a while, Jaskier heard a low growl and the words, “Feel warm,” rumbling against his skin. He wanted to tell Geralt so many things—he felt the same, he loved the heated passion the Witcher brought to his life, the security, the absolute certainty that he was safe even in their dangerous work—but his mouth couldn't form words and all Jaskier managed to do was shake like a leaf under Geralt's hands, like they hadn't done this a dozen times before...

“You make me _feel_.”

This wasn't like before, though, this was completely different.

His clothes in a pile next to them, Jaskier arched up, trying to feel as much of Geralt as possible. Teeth scraped across the bump of his hip bone before a tongue smoothed over the same spot, a light nibble across his ribs before Geralt lavished the area with kisses.

Geralt's cheek hardly brushed the side of his cock and Jaskier came. All the sensation, all the building tension, it was too much, too good. Hot come coated his stomach and Jaskier fell back onto the bedroll. “Fuck,” he whispered. “Geralt, I'm so sorry, I'm very excited to see you and I just—”

Geralt wasn't perturbed in the least. He peered up at Jaskier, a feral glint in his eyes and a—fuck—streak of come across his bottom lip. Geralt licked it away before turning his attention to Jaskier's stomach, greedily lapping at his spend. Oversensitive and so close to coming apart at the seams, Jaskier bucked and writhed at each lick, his cock already half hard.

When Geralt had cleaned the evidence of Jaskier's enthusiasm, he rested his head on the bard's stomach. “I'd like to fuck you,” he said.

Funny, to Jaskier's ears, it sounded like, “ _I'd like to make love to you_.”

“Please do.”

A Few Years Later...

Jaskier passed another glance around his small quarters. Yes, he was staying at the Redanian court with all the pomp and circumstance and blah, blah, blah, but he was still a humble bard. A comfortable bed, a fire, and a half decent work desk was all that title got him.

He searched the room again anyway. He'd hate to get to the top of a mountain only to find he left his rose oil behind. Yes, it was mostly for scenting soaps (the Redanian ladies almost cleaned him out of rose oil, they wanted rose soaps, balms, anything he could produce for them) but he enjoyed the smell for his own private moments... though, thinking about it, he didn't know how much private time he'd have at Kaer Morhen.

“Fuck,” he whispered to himself as he packed the last of his things, ready to meet Geralt in a few days. “Why did I agree to this?” Spending a winter locked in a castle with Geralt was a dream, spending a winter locked in a castle with _other_ Witchers might be a nightmare.

Geralt's harsh moods had smoothed out over the past few years, but he didn't expect the same from the others. And yes, Jaskier knew he could keep up, he traveled The Path for a portion of the year, he wasn't a wilting flower that needed protection from the big bad wolves, but damn it he liked being alone with Geralt, no other people to complicate their lives.

He liked Geralt's sweet smiles—the ones he wore when he knew only Jaskier was looking—and he loved the soft kisses and licks to his neck when they were cuddled up close... What if, with the other Witchers looking on, there to tease, Geralt started to withdraw? What if they didn't like him and Geralt had to spend the winter choosing between Jaskier and the closest thing he had to family?

What if the prolonged close quarters made Geralt realize he wasn't worth it anymore?

Jaskier wasn't old, he was barely twenty-five, and if you asked anyone in the Redanian court, he was twenty-three. But you know what he fucking wasn't anymore? Nineteen. There was a large difference there. At nineteen, he could be annoying and a little hair brained and it came off as charming. At twenty-five, he was snippy and sarcastic, too quick to answer back.

“Stop it, Jaskier. Everything will be fine. Geralt enjoys your company.” And if he kept repeating it, he might believe it one day.

Jaskier shook the dark thoughts from his head and got in bed. No matter what, Geralt was the one who invited him to Kaer Morhen, so some part of him wanted Jaskier's company. He only hoped the other members of the School of the Wolf felt the same.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started playing the Witcher 3, and when I was trying to think of a monster hunt for this chapter, I remembered the royal griffin hunt. If that seems familiar, that's why, I just picked a monster from the game because I am lazy.
> 
> The ending might seem like a little bit of a downer, but we all know what happens next: Jaskier goes to Kaer Morhen and loves them all, so there's no bad here.


End file.
